One True Thing (20 page)

‘Where are we going?' Luke asks, shuffling awkwardly beside me in his crocs and baggy tracky dacks. His hair's on end, wet and tangled as usual, and he has that puffy, pink look he gets after he's spent too long in the water, made worse by his bruised eye. I reach for the towel he's dragging along the puddled pool deck and roll it into a ball, then shove it against his chest to hold. Nathan's dad, Mr Alessandro, brought them both to training after they'd hung out for the day. I thank Mr Alessandro and get the obligatory half-apologetic, half-sympathetic nod. ‘No worries, Frankie,' he says as we head to the pool doors.

‘Hurry up,' I say to Luke, as much to distract me from Mr Alessandro's expression than anything else.

‘Got any new pics I can see, Paedo Junior?' a voice from behind taunts. ‘My phone's not getting any reception.'

I hesitate, tempted to tell Travis just where he can shove his phone, but then I remember his iPad. I still have to fix it, but so far he hasn't dobbed me in. Surprisingly. I'm so sick of having to fight. I sigh. ‘Let it go, Travis.'

There's a brief flicker of something behind his gaze. I try to remember the last time I called him by his first name and realise I can't. It's been ages, but I used to.

He high-fives Luke, who smiles. As a lifeguard, in Luke's mind, Travis Matthews is right up there in hero status with Captain America. Maybe even Ian Thorpe. ‘Good swim?' Travis asks.

Luke nods shyly. ‘All right. Did a new PB.'

‘Nice.'

I watch Travis Meathead Matthews turn into a normal human being before me, and wonder what the hell I'm supposed to have done to earn his endless bullshit. He doesn't even look at me but speaks directly to Luke.

‘See you at the States?'

Luke grins, eyes bright with pride. ‘Yep.'

Travis winks at my brother and turns on his heel, throwing a rough, ‘See you, Junior!' over his shoulder. I guess I should be grateful he dropped the ‘Paedo'.

I grab Luke by the hand and tell him to hurry, but he yanks away and stops dead. ‘I SAID,
WHERE ARE WE GOING
?' he yells.

‘Luke!' I stop and scope the pool centre. The shrill screams and endless splashing could drown out a small football crowd. No one's looking. That's something. ‘What's your problem?'

‘I asked you a question.' He crosses his arms, refusing to move.

I bend down to his level. ‘You want this fixed, right?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Then shut up and come with me.'

Gran's family room is small and smells of lavender and crème de menthe.

Luke has showered and is wolfing down a toasted cheese and avocado sandwich while Gran sips her grasshopper and I impatiently stir the cup of dull-grey instant coffee she's forcing me to drink. I sit beside her, mostly ignoring the buzzing of my phone, except to check who's messaging – Jake, over and over; Kessie, over and over; Tyler, once, saying simply:
Hope we r ok.
Finally I send Jake and Kessie a message saying that everything's fine – that I'll call them later – but my finger hovers over Tyler's number. What do I say? I mean, we
are
okay, but my fingers refuse to type the right words.
When in doubt, emoji it out
. I settle on a smiley face with a couple of treble bass symbols.

I let the mindless babble of the
Masterchef
contestants lull me, though, by the end of the episode, I'm genuinely
worried that Carrie's spinach and feta soufflé might not be fully aerated and that Brett's grain-fed spatchcock is overcooked. There's a newsbreak, featuring Mum opening a refurbished train station, Sarah in the background nodding gravely, Harry twitching beside her. I wonder if he knew what it would be like to be the Premier's media secretary. It's definitely different to the gig he signed on for all those years ago, back when he was straight out of university and looking for a career. As long as I've known Sarah, she was serious and dedicated. But Harry was young and new, just a few years older than I am now. He was nothing like he is today. I wonder if it's what he wanted. I wonder if he's happy.

Gran stands heavily, that thick body heaving with an unusual lethargy, and she leads me out into the kitchen with a jerky wave.

We barely shut the door before I speak. ‘I met him.'

Gran blinks. ‘I assume you mean Colin.'

‘Yes, I mean Colin.'

‘You know where he is?'

I nod.

‘How?'

‘Is that important?'

‘You won't tell me?'

‘We hung out. He took me to his hotel to change.'

‘To change …?'

‘We went swimming – or he did. Does it matter?'

She sits back, a little shocked. Then she chuckles, bemused. ‘No, I suppose not.' She folds her arms across her ample breast. ‘If your mother weren't so proud, she could find him in an instant.'

I'm about to object to this, though I don't know why. She's right. Mum
would
know and she
is
being stubborn. ‘That's why I stopped asking her. But you were there … when he was born.'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you make Mum give him up?'

Gran's steely gaze is unnerving; I fight the urge to look away. ‘You remind me of her,' she says quietly.

I bristle. When she says things like that I don't know if she means it as a compliment or an insult. There's something wrong with that, isn't there? But the truth is, I don't know if it's because of how Gran
says
it. Or how
I
hear it. I'm starting to suspect it's a bit of both.

‘Gran.'

She sighs. ‘No. I didn't
make
her.' She sits straighter and sips her grasshopper, considering me over its rim. ‘But I told her she was on her own if she kept the baby.' Gran takes a deep, uneven breath. ‘She couldn't do it without me, and I knew that.' She uncrosses her arms, rests them on her knees. ‘It's different today – the government helps you. And schools too.'

‘She didn't want to give him up?'

Gran's laugh is completely without humour. ‘Neither of us wanted to give him up, Francesca!'

‘Why then?'

She glances up at the door to the family room, where Luke is probably half-asleep on the couch by now, done in after training. It's as if he uses every ounce of that scrawny body in the pool, fighting some evil – maybe the kids at school or the poison in his lungs. The asthma itself. Trying to beat it down even though by doing so he's risking another attack. It's a delicate balance – that's what the doctors say. To do the right amount of exercise to build strength and resistance, but not so much as to push his lungs into seizure. I guess we're always trying to work out how far we can push things. To get that perfect balance.

Gran looks older suddenly. That ridiculously youthful face and body look all their eighty-five years. I feel a pang in my chest, realising for the first time just how short our time together might be. I reach across the table and take her thick, rough hand in mine – something I'm not sure I've done in this way before. Something my mum would do.

‘I need to know,' I say.

‘I'd done it, Francesca. You understand that? I'd done it myself – raised your mother all on my own. After your grandfather left, there was no one else. No husband. No mother. No one but me. Everyone I knew was on the other side of the world.' Her voice catches at the end of her sentence and she clears her throat noisily. ‘She wouldn't be where she is today if she hadn't given him up,' Gran says firmly. ‘So don't judge!'

‘I'm not judging!' I say, though I am. I've been lied to my whole life and I'm
angry.
But it's all so cloudy, and I know my anger isn't helping. I silently count two bars of 2:4 time, feel the beat soothe me. Deep breath. Try again. ‘But she had to have a reason. More than this.'

Gran arches an eyebrow. ‘The boy died.'

‘I'm not following …'

‘The father –
Colin's
father – died. They weren't going to get married, but he might have stayed around once he had time to think.'

I take another deep breath. ‘Did she love him?'

‘That's not a question I can answer.'

I take a moment to absorb this. ‘But you were already in Ireland. You'd already made up your mind to adopt him out.'

Gran's jaw tightens, the muscles working overtime. ‘I convinced your mother it was better to be with family while she decided what to do. She didn't know I'd arranged the adoption.'

‘You
tricked
her?'

‘Not exactly. I was just keeping her options open.'

‘And then her boyfriend died?'

‘It was a difficult time.'

My mind drifts to Dad. I wonder what it's like for him now, how painful it is to stand by while their marriage is mocked and ridiculed, knowing the truth but not free to reveal it. Dad is standing by his wife, and, yes, his family too. All of us.

‘It was the best thing,' Gran finishes.

‘But look how it's turned out!'

Gran sniffs, that large personality for the moment appearing small. But I can still see that woman of iron, that steel trap of a mind just as alive and impenetrable as it's always been. ‘I knew she was going to be something
special
,' she says, her voice lifting at the end. ‘Someone who would break down barriers, make things different.' She tilts her chin, defiant. ‘She wouldn't be where she is today.'

‘Who knows?'

‘
I
know. And so does your mother if she's honest.'

‘We need to talk to him.'

Gran shakes her head. ‘We can't make him accept her. It doesn't work like that.'

‘But we shouldn't give up, either!'

Gran crosses her arms and frowns. ‘There's no need for you to take this on, Francesca. It's not your burden to carry.'

‘Yes, it is!
Yes, it is!
' I yell.

Rapid footsteps. The door slides open. ‘Why are you fighting?' Luke asks.

‘We're not,' I answer, tension crackling in the air.

‘Nothing to worry about, Luke,' Gran says. ‘Go watch the telly, son.'

‘I want to meet him,' Luke says, as though he's been listening the whole time.

‘Oh, jayzus!' Gran says, looking heavenward.

‘We're not babies, Gran,' I say. It dawns on me that that's how I've been treating Luke. ‘We're all a part of this.' I wave a hand towards my brother, including him. ‘Mum needs us. She's going to lose this election and all she's worked for – and Colin too. We can't let that happen.'

Gran is still shaking her head, seeking help from the skies – or the ceiling.

‘We can make it better.
You
can make it better.' I'm not entirely sure I believe this, even as I say it, but I push on because what else is there? ‘We have to try.'

Gran stands taller, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Luke and I wait, refusing to flinch. And after a long minute, she says, ‘First, you've got some fences to mend, Francesca.'

‘No.'

‘You're making it worse,' Luke says, turning on me, no longer my ally. He reaches for my phone and starts texting.

Gran and I watch him, startled. He hands me the phone, and I read the message asking Mum if we can talk when she gets home, then my little brother tells me to press ‘send'.

And I do.

I come home from Gran's with Luke in tow, prepared for an argument when I tell him to go to bed. Incredibly, he
doesn't object, or not really. He just clomps off, slamming his bedroom door behind him with a lot less energy than I'd expected. He looks so tired. I wonder if I should say something to Mum or Dad. Maybe he needs to see the specialist again or change his medication. But when I listen at his door barely fifteen minutes later, his room is dark, the lights out and his breathing sounds normal enough. No rattle. No cough.